21. Foundations #4
Surion fell into step beside Surin as they followed, his voice pitched low but not quite quiet enough. "Uncle, I bet you are proud. Malec has sired an heir. That makes him far more eligible for the throne than I am now."
Surin heard the anxiety threaded through the words, the unspoken threat beneath them. Surion had always been insecure about Malec, always feared the day his cousin might decide to take what Surion believed he was entitled to.
Surin's voice remained calm, almost bored. "Fear not, Surion. Malec has retired from public life. He has no interest in politics, nor has he ever. Besides, he is far too busy now taking care of a baby with extraordinary psychic powers. He has no time for anything else."
Surion stopped mid-step. "Psychic powers?"
Behind them, the advisors gasped. Murmurs rippled through the gathered courtiers. Even some of the soldiers twitched, their eyes widening.
Surin continued walking, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "The child is already speaking to his parents in the dreamscape. Moving objects with his mind. And he is only days old."
The shock spread like wildfire, just as he'd intended. Surin had shared that information deliberately. He wanted it to spread. Wanted every noble, every soldier, every scheming merchant to know that the child was not just a half-blood curiosity.
He was valuable, powerful, dangerous and absolutely not to be messed with.
Melodie's foot caught in the edge of her cloak as Malec's stride carried him forward, his long legs eating up the distance too quickly. She stumbled, her body pitching sideways.
He caught her before she hit the ground, his arms sweeping beneath her knees and around her back in one fluid motion.
He lifted her without asking, adjusting her weight against his chest as though she belonged there.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave her a look—sharp, pointed, a silent reminder of the game they were playing.
She shut her mouth and turned her face away, filing her irritation for later.
Malec kissed her temple, the gesture soft and apologetic, then carried her toward the royal quarters.
Surion trailed behind, his voice pitching into false concern. "Should I call a physician to look her over? She did give birth only a week ago, after all. We wouldn't want any complications?—"
"We brought a healer with us," Malec said without looking back. "A Canariae healer. Have her brought to our quarters immediately, and make sure she is treated well."
Surion let out a half-laugh, though the sound carried an edge. "Another Canariae in my palace? How generous of you, cousin."
Malec ignored the quip entirely, his tone flat and businesslike. "Has the council been assembled as I requested?"
"Yes, yes," Surion said, waving a hand dismissively. "They've been waiting for hours. I made certain every member was present, just as you demanded."
Behind them, a few council members had already begun trailing the procession, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes hungry.
They wanted to see if the child's existence was real or simply rumor.
Wanted proof that the impossible had happened.
Malec reached the chamber doors and shouldered them open, carrying Melodie straight to the large bed.
He set her down gently, his hands adjusting the pillows at her back until she was propped comfortably against the headboard.
"I'm going to speak with the council," he said, his voice low and measured. "I'm leaving guards at your door. Not to keep you in, but to protect you from anyone who might try to enter."
He paused, then continued, slower now. "If you decide to leave, you're allowed. The guards will escort you. But I'm asking you to stay."
Melodie looked up at him, her expression guarded. This sounded familiar. Far too familiar. Was she truly allowed to leave, or was this just another version of the same cage?
Malec must have seen the doubt strike across her face, because he sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, turning to meet her eyes directly. When he spoke again, his voice carried a weight she hadn't heard before. Genuine and unguarded.
"Melodie, I know I have no reason to expect your trust. Asking for it is a large ask. But I'm going to ask you now anyway." He paused, his pale tan eyes searching hers. "Please. While we are surrounded by danger, will you stay here until I return?"
He took her hand in his, his warmth encasing her fingers. "If you decide to leave the room with guards, I will not be angry. But I am asking you for a favor. Will you do this for me?"
Melodie looked down at their clasped hands.
His thumb brushed slow circles against her knuckles, a nervous tell she knew well by now.
The touch carried none of the force he usually hid beneath gentleness.
This time, he was truly asking which meant choice was truly hers.
And she wanted to give him this, not because she felt cornered or owed him anything, but because the request, for once—was genuine.
She nodded. "Okay, I'll stay here. Unless you're gone for like days, because I cannot be stagnant that long. It will kill me."
Malec smiled, warmth and relief softening his features. He lifted her hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you, dove. I appreciate this. I’ll have Healer Kalemon come stay with you while you wait for your overbearing husband to return and make sure you’re safe. Agreed?”
She rolled her eyes at the fact that he kept calling himself her husband even though he hadn't even really proposed. Or maybe Awyans didn't propose? Was that just a human thing?
Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around him.
He stiffened, his entire body going rigid with surprise. He didn't seem to know how to react.
She whispered against his ear, her voice teasing but firm. "Okay. I'll wait for you, I guess. But don't get too comfortable with that husband talk until we are ACTUALLY married. It's ridiculous."
He chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest, and pulled her fully into his grasp. His arms closed around her, solid and sure. "No such thing to me. You've been mine ever since you knocked me flat on my back."
For a moment, they stayed like that. Then, reluctantly, he pulled away. He smoothed the covers around her, tucking her in with precise, careful motions, his hands lingering just a few seconds too long. Finally, he stood and crossed to the door.
In the hallway, Surion waited with his arms crossed, his expression caught between impatience and curiosity. Beside him, Surin stood oddly silent, pale blue eyes fixed on some distant point, his face carved from stone.
Malec stepped through the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click.
The hour had come to enter the pit of snakes and scorpions. Malec would carry fire with him when he did, and by the time the smoke cleared every creature in that nest would know one simple truth: she was not theirs to touch.
Malec crossed the room with the quiet menace of a storm in black and silver armor.
His tunic clung tight across his chest, his boots struck the marble floor with deliberate weight, and his fists were still curled from the fury he had not yet burned through. Every line of his body radiated violence contained by discipline, a predator still deciding which throat to rip first.
Behind him came Surion, tugging at the golden collar of his robe, the embroidered hem nearly catching under his boots. He tried to maintain the appearance of authority, but he looked more like an Awyan dragged in the wake of a beast than one walking of his own volition.
And then Surin.
The elder Talandros moved with his usual measured grace, dark robes flowing, pale blue eyes fixed straight ahead.
But he said nothing. Offered no greeting to the assembled nobles or acknowledgment of the tension crackling through the air.
His silence was unusual enough to draw attention, whetted enough to unsettle those who knew him.
Surin always had something to say, some observation delivered with cutting precision.
But now he simply took his place at the obsidian table and folded his hands, watching.
Inside, nobles seated in long curved rows around the gleaming table froze at the intrusion. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, goblets were set down mid-sip, and every head turned toward the doorway. A few startled gasps tore loose before being swallowed just as quickly.
Those who had been lounging smugly in their seats shot upright, instinct forcing them to their feet.
Because Malec Talandros was not just an Awyan—he was a legend.
The commander of the Northern Front. The silver beast who had once razed enemy strongholds to embers and carved battle lines into history with his blade.
And now here he stood, in their hall, carrying the scent of blood and fire with him like a second skin.
Respect hung in the chamber like heavy incense, thick with reverence and just as suffocating.
Beneath it, Malec could already smell the rot.
The courtiers gathered there might have worn their composure like polished armor, but to him they were vultures circling a feast they hoped to claim.
Word had traveled ahead of him from the eastern estate, whispered through Caelistra until the rumor burned through the city like wildfire.
Every person in that room knew why he had come.
They had all heard of the miracle that had been born, and of the prize they imagined might yet be taken.
Malec did not pause or bow as he crossed the chamber. He went straight to the long table, drew out the chair at its head—the king’s chair—and sat. The message needed no explanation. Courtesy had been left at the door. For this moment, the court belonged to him.